


Codes & Conduct

by NayaWarbler



Category: Glee
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Bullying, Dalton Academy, Doctor Cooper, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Homophobia, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Med Student Blaine, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, No Underage Sex, Older Blaine Anderson, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, William McKinley High School, Younger Kurt Hummel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-11-18 02:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18111638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NayaWarbler/pseuds/NayaWarbler
Summary: Kurt Hummel finds himself in the ICU after an ambush from a group of bullies — which wouldn’t be a problem, except that it happens to be on the same night of a freak road accident that leaves the hospital understaffed, and he happens to be in critical condition. Responding to a Code Orange, med student Blaine Anderson rushes meet his brother, Dr. Cooper Anderson, in the emergency ward. For Kurt, this could be the end or the beginning... and he's not even awake for it. Klaine WIP, also on FF.net





	1. Sleep Tight

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.
> 
> PLEASE READ!!!  
> Warnings: descriptions of violence, homophobia, non-graphic sexual assault, language, and mature themes. Age difference — Kurt is 17, Blaine is 25. No underage.
> 
> Note: All codes and medical jargon used in this story will be based on my knowledge, so most of it will be what we use in Canada.

****They always made him go first.

He hated it. 

Not only because they called him “lady,” but also because it meant that there was always someone behind him. For people like Kurt, for the prey, for the victims, the fools, the suckers and the chumps, having someone behind you is always the worst thing.

Really, it was Survival Instincts 101 — maybe that was a course that should have been taught at McKinley High, if they weren’t going to make any effort to change things for the better. Teach the children how to survive instead of fixing the flawed system.

So maybe Kurt had some anger in there somewhere that wasn’t so hard to find. Could you blame him? His entire existence had been founded on anger: ignorance, homophobia, stereotyping. All this before he was even old enough to know what — or _who_ — he liked. All because of the way he looked, or the way he sounded, or, _yes,_ which sex appealed to him.

He liked to think that he was a good person, despite what they said. However, to be fair, the vile things they spewed at him had less to do with his virtue and more to do with pointing out obvious truths (for example, the word he liked to not say). At least in this way, he could pretend that they were complimenting him — that they could find nothing wrong with his heart and instead had to settle for tearing down his being. 

Think about this for a moment, and let it break your heart, if you want to truly understand Kurt Hummel.

As each second of his life ticked away where he was hidden fearfully away in one place or another, Kurt had lots of time to think about his circumstances. However, none of these revelations stopped him from crying himself to sleep at night, or from keeping a first-aid kit in his locker, or from frequenting the nurse’s office with a plethora of excuses in his back pocket like a normal teen his age would frequent a club or a bar.

It’s why he was trapped in the locker room, hiding in one of the shower stalls with his knees tucked into his body and his head down, not wishing or praying because he was far past that point. His bloody hand itched to turn on the warm spray, and his aching shoulder screamed in agreement, but he knew he couldn’t risk it. Not for another — he checked the clock above the doorway — twelve minutes. Everyone was usually gone by six o’clock.

At least, he damn well hoped so.

He watched the hands move until his eyes grew blurry from staring at the same spot for too long. Time was slow, but it was plentiful. Either that, or it was the opposite — he wasn’t sure which he preferred, to be honest.

When the clock finally chimed, Kurt gave in and turned on the shower. Then he waited a moment, then two, three. The only sounds that could be heard were the broken hum of the humidifier and the eerie buzz of fluorescent lights. It seemed that today was one of the lucky days…

Not that Kurt believed in luck.

***

“Where have you _been_?” Burt screeched the second he walked through the door. Rolling his eyes, he hung up his (thrifted) designer coat, making sure to keep his hand out of sight before tucking it casually in his pocket.

“I’m a teenager, dad. Teenagers stay out late,” he retorted in his far-from-rebellious manner. It was the first thing he’d said since history class when Mr. Schue had picked on him — note the choice wording — for an answer he clearly didn’t know.

“Not this teenager,” Burt replied. “Who were you with? Rachel? Mercedes? Or was it… a boy?”

“In Lima?” Kurt snorted. “Fat chance of that. The only boys my age around here are brainless jocks who…” He trailed off, clearing his throat. Confessions tended to slip out a little too easily around his father.

Burt eyed him carefully, and Kurt straightened his back, averting his eyes and digging his hand further into his pocket; unfortunately for him, fashion and deep jean pockets don’t mix well.

Earlier that day, Karofsky had knocked him into his locker — hence the bruised shoulder — and stepped on his hand when he tried to pick up his books. Damn boot crevasses, and damn that giant-footed neanderthal with a lot of body mass to rest on his tiny hand.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that!” Finn called from the living room, preceding a loud crash from his game console and an equally loud curse. Burt shook his head, signaling for his son to head inside. Kurt smiled, following the reprimands from Carole into the kitchen where he was ambushed — in the good way — by a combination of scents.

His father strolled into the kitchen as well, pecking Carole’s lips. He eyed the pot happily, taking in a lungful through his nose. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

She shook her head, giggling quietly before whacking his hand away from the handle. “Italian, and _no_ , it’s not ready yet.”

He grumbled playfully, and Kurt rolled his eyes again, holding back a grin at his father’s antics. No matter how his day went, he could always come home to this. Yet still, sometimes he couldn’t… sometimes, when Karofsky left a mark on his face that he knew he couldn’t cover up until the next day, he had to lie to his father and tell him that he was staying with Rachel or Mercedes when really he would cut class and stay overnight in his car in the school parking lot, sometimes laying on the floor so he wouldn’t be seen until class was over.

“Hey, buddy, you in there?” He was brought out of his thoughts by Burt waving a hand in his face. He startled, nodding his head aggressively.

“What? Yeah, just spacey. Thinking about our Glee assignment this week.”

Carole’s ears perked; she loved to hear about Glee because it was one of the things that bonded her two sons. “Well, sweetie, how about you and Finn tell me all about it while we finish up dinner?"

“What about me?” Burt protested half-heartedly, sent off by just one glance from Carole.

“Honey, I love you, but your cooking skills leave much to be desired.” He didn’t even pretend to be offended for that one, just grinned and pecked her lips once more before grabbing a beer and heading for the living room.

“And me?” Finn said, coming to sit at the stool propped in front of the island.

“How about you just sit there and talk, hon?” He nodded enthusiastically in that way that only Finn could, grinning with all his teeth when Kurt slid him a hunk of spare cheese.

“You’re the best, bro,” he said — or at least, that’s what Kurt construed — through a mouthful of cheddar.

Carole returned from the sink with a handful of washed vegetables. “Kurt, sweetie, could you dice the onions and peel the garlic?”

About to agree, Kurt remembered his injured hand, his heart sinking into his chest. Cooking dinner with his stepmother was one of his favourite parts of the day. He leaned against the countertop, sticking his other hand into his pockets as well, and said, “Um, I think I’m going to opt out today. Sorry, Carole.”

She stopped, shocked, and her eyebrows furrowed. “Is something the matter? You love cooking, Kurt.”

“Yeah, I’m just… tired, you know? Long day at school. Lots of homework to do.”

Carole nodded, concern etched into her features, and didn’t protest. “Sure, honey. Get some rest. I’ll call you when dinner’s done.”

Kurt smiled weakly, waving goodbye to Finn before heading slowly up the stairs. On the way up, he heard his brother launch into a spiel about their Glee assignment… and he wanted nothing more than to go down there and join him.

Too bad the world wouldn’t be satisfied until it drained every last bit of joy out of Kurt Hummel’s soul.

***

Changed into his baggiest sweater that had far-too-long sleeves — in fact, he was almost certain it was his brother’s and had found its way into his closet, as nothing _he_ owned would be this… _Finn_ — Kurt settled back onto his bed after a long and interrogative dinner, resting his freshly bandaged hand against the warmth of his laptop. His facebook was open from the night before, and he refreshed the page despite his absolute lack of interest. There was Rachel’s post about the competition for sectionals — the Garglers or something — followed by some kind of internet feud between his friends that Kurt probably should have paid attention to but really couldn't be bothered.

The first time he saw his name, he shut down his computer and pushed it to the other side of his bed, eyes stinging from pain and anger. Kurt _hated_ that damn word they used to describe him. Hated it.

They’d found him.

They were everywhere.

Kurt was so, so _tired._

He never went to sleep that night.

***

“I mean, it’s clearly obvious,” she declared, standing from her chair as though she were in a soap. “I deserve that solo at sectionals.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Rachel, _clearly obvious_ is almost as redundant as your melodramatics.”

“You know what’s more redundant?” Mr. Schue interjected. “You two fighting over this when I’ve clearly said I already have someone chosen for the solo!”

Kurt forced himself to stay upright in his chair, already feeling himself doze off — not _only_ because he was bored of seeing the same thing happen again that literally happened every day, but also because he was just so _tired_. He could practically feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness, and his eyes fluttered shut against his will. Not that he was upset about losing the darling visual of Rachel and Mercedes battling to the death like gladiators or anything.

Of course, it didn’t matter that he was half-asleep, anyway; no one in the club would notice. With this comfort at the front of his mind, Kurt allowed himself to drift off…

He was, however, woken by an enraged shout from Rachel. “What?” she cried, marching up to Mr. Schue and poking an accusing finger at him. “This is heresy! How dare you chose-”

“Rachel, I think he’s perfectly capable-”

“What about me-”

“I respect you, Mr. Schue, but-”

“Are you sure this is a good-”

“He’s _half-asleep_ , for God’s sake!”

That one caught Kurt’s attention.

“Rachel, I’m sure he’s just tired from a long day,” Mr. Schue defended. Kurt’s eyes widened — could he be hearing right? Man, he’d chosen the wrong moment to fall asleep in Glee.

Finn nodded, chiming in. “Yeah, he was like this yesterday after school, too.”

Mr. Schue’s eyebrows furrowed. “Really? You do seem distant lately, Kurt. Are you feeling alright?”

Kurt just sat there, in his usual back row seat, staring at the well-meaning teacher with incredulous eyes. _Now_ he noticed something was wrong? He didn’t want to be angry at the teacher — he could see in his eyes that he wanted the best for all his students. It’s just… sometimes Kurt felt like that didn’t extend to him.

But a solo? At sectionals? It seemed too good to be true, and so Kurt didn’t trust it. That was the standard he lived by, so it seemed. That was the rule he used to protect himself the way he couldn’t physically.

“Kurt?”

In response, he just shook his head. He didn’t want a pity solo, or a hand-out, or anything really. “I don’t want it. Give it to someone else. Like Brittany or Santana, or maybe Tina or Artie.”

Rachel glared at him, but Finn just looked concerned. “I thought you wanted this, bro?”

“Kurt, what’s this about?” Mr. Schue asked. They locked eyes, and Kurt saw the worry in his. He breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled, shaking his head.

“I have a headache.”

“It’ll be gone by sectionals.”

A pause, and a flash of emotion passed through his teacher’s eyes. “Please, Kurt.”

He hesitated but nodded nevertheless. “Okay.”

Only once the meeting was over and everyone was leaving for their homes, when he caught Mr. Schue’s grin as he locked the doors to their haven did Kurt finally allow himself to believe it, and a matching grin slowly spread across his face.

He was going to sing, and he was going to be damn good.

***

“Finn? Where are you?” Kurt stumbled in the dark, staying close to the school’s walls that were lit by small, circular, moth-attracting lights that illuminated the dust in the chilly air. He gripped his cell phone close to his ear, listening for his brother’s comforting voice.

It came, but the words were not comforting. “Dude, I’m so sorry but Rachel literally dragged me off with her. Can you drive yourself home?”

“You drove us this morning,” he whispered, pressing his back against the wall. There could be no one behind him if there was a wall of bricks. “I don’t have the Navigator.”

“Shit. Um, my car’s in the lot. Take it home.”

“Please tell me that this is not the one time you happened to remember your keys and that they are not in your jacket pocket.” He heard fumbling on the other end of the line, followed by a relieved sigh.

“They aren’t. Which means they’re in the locker room. You know my combo?”

Kurt sighed. “I do, but chances are you probably forgot to lock it.”

“True,” Finn replied. “Well, Rachel’s on my ass again. I’m really sorry about this, bro. Drive safe. I’ll see you at home for Friday night family dinner?”

“Of course you will. It’s family dinner after all.” He rubbed his temples. “Don’t let Rachel drive you mad. Goodbye, Finn.”

“See ya, Kurt. Love you, little brother.”

His frown softened, and he smiled gently. “I love you too, Finn. And I’m older than y-” The line died, and Kurt rolled his eyes. _Goofball_.

He pushed his bag higher up his shoulder and held the strap, taking a deep breath before entering the building again. The halls were brightly lit by fluorescent lights (which did no good for his skin, mind you), but in the light, he could neither see nor hear a soul. He checked his watch; it was past six o’clock, and the only people in the building now would be the cleaning crew, which consisted of Larry, the one-eyed janitor; Gertrude, the one who smokes more than she cleans; and at times, oddly enough, Principal Figgins — don’t ask, because Kurt couldn’t tell you.

Just to be safe, he took off his favourite high-heeled boots that clacked when they hit the floor and tucked them away behind a fake plant (which somehow seemed to be dying, and that was a whole other realm of impossible).

As his socked feet hit the ground, they barely made a patter; Kurt was, really and truly, quiet as a mouse. He slipped into the locker room, making a bee-line for his brother’s locker — as far as he knew, there was no one here he needed to look out for. However, as he opened the unlocked locker, he felt shadows dancing across his skin and froze.

“What are you doing here, squirt?”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Just getting my brother’s keys to drive home, Coach. Glee just let out.”

Beiste nodded, still looking apprehensive. “Alright, kid. Although you guys sure are staying late these days.”

“You know, prepping for sectionals.”

A smile lit up her face, making her seem more pretty than scary. “Will was telling me at lunch about how he’d chosen a certain blue-eyed someone with impeccable skin for the solo. Congratulations, buddy.”

“Thanks, Coach. I’m really excited,” he replied, very much telling the truth. The light in his eyes as he talked about singing made that much abundantly clear to the football coach.

She pounded his shoulder lightly, missing his tiny flinch. “As you should be. I hear sectionals is a big deal.”

“I’d try to equate them to some football performance or something, but we all know how that would turn out.”

“Match, Kurt. It’s a football match.”

“Right. Of course.” He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. “I was on the football team once, which means I should probably know this. Although I did used to say ‘audition’ instead of ‘try out,’ so I guess I’m improving.”

“You were on the team? What position?” Beiste asked, looking genuinely interested. Kurt loved how sincere she was.

“Kicker, and that’s a story for another day.”

“It’s probably a long one, too,” she joked, locking the door to her office. “Well, I’ll hold you to that. For now, you should get home. Goodnight, Kurt.”

“Night, Coach.” As she turned to leave, a question popped into Kurt’s mind, important. “Wait, Coach?”

She turned. “Yes? Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just… did you have a late practice today?” he asked, trying to keep his fear from manifesting on his face. If Beiste was here…

“No, we finished up an hour or two ago. Why?” She looked concerned, and Kurt waved her off, abated.

“No reason, just wondering how much Finn missed today.”

She smiled, but the worry hadn’t yet disappeared from her features. “I try to keep the workload low when you guys have Glee practice, considering how many of my guys are doing both.”

“They really appreciate it, Coach. We all do.” It was left unsaid, but the name Sue Sylvester weighed down the metaphorical balance.

“I know you do. Night, Kurt. Drive safe.”

“You too, Coach. Night.” Then she was gone, and the safety net that had settled over Kurt rose like the hair on a frightened cat.

The hum of the humidifier suddenly seemed like the backtrack to a horror film, and he knew he was practically alone in a cold school filled with the ghosts of his past. All he wanted was to get out of there before his so-called luck finally caught up to him, after all the good things that had happened to him today.

As the universe had shown him in the past, Kurt Hummel doesn’t deserve to be happy.

Desperate to leave, he quickly grabbed the jacket from his brother’s locker, making a mental note to remind him more to lock it, before turning and…

Coming face to face with Karofsky and his goons.

“Coach just left. She’s probably still here,” Kurt defended, shoving the jacket back into the locker to free his hands before shutting the door and backing up against it.

“She’s in the parking lot. She can’t hear nothing,” Azimio sneered, leaning in close. “There’s gonna be a lot to hear, too. 

“Why are you even here? Coach said your practice was let out hours ago. Do you really have nothing better to do on a Friday night than wait for someone to come along who you can beat down?”

Karofsky’s face contorted, screwing up so that all his features drew closer together. “There is nothing better,” he retorted, breaking a fragmented metal pipe from the ceiling and smacking it against his hand, muscles bulging menacingly.

“Why are you doing this?” he cried hysterically. “I’ve done nothing to you. You can’t punch the gay out of me any more than I can punch the ignoramus out of you.”

“Calm down, fairy,” Karofsky breathed, settling for one of his tamer nicknames. This sent a chill of dread down Kurt’s spine; he’d be making up for that in other ways. “We haven’t even started yet and you’re already crying. Maybe we’re just trying to toughen you up, make you less of a-” Kurt tried to block out the awful swears coming from his lips, but they forced their way into his mind, stinging, burning, destroying.

Then the first blow came, and the words were like a paper cut.

He keeled over, dropping to the floor and clutching his stomach. Of course, they used this opportunity to kick him while he was down. After a while, Kurt could no longer distinguish between punches and kicks and hits from the metal pipe that he was almost certain snapped one of his ribs in two. Each one was the same heart-stopping pain that made the same, single thought in his head scream, though it would be no louder than if he were whispering.

Was this how he was going to die, surrounded by homophobes in a stinky locker room? If one’s greatness is measured by their last moments, their last words, their last thoughts, Kurt was about as great as that dumpster they would throw him into.

And, to be honest, Kurt wasn’t really sure when it ended. He knew at some point it did because he was no longer crowded by sweat and skin and flesh, but those blows became phantom blows and continued on and on and on and on until it seemed like they would never end. Only one thing broke through his blocked mind, and that was the moment he was certain the rest of them were gone.

That was the moment that Karofsky’s lips met his.

He couldn’t hear well through the ringing in his ears, but he could make out parts of what he was saying and try to guess the rest. “You taste like blood,” he thought Karofsky said. “God, those sounds you were making while we beat you up were really…” He stopped trying to guess then, throat filling with bile that spilled weakly over the side of his mouth. Disgusting. Vile. Horrid. There were no words.

“I’m sorry about this, I really am,” Karofsky whispered, clear as day. How close was he? “But I can’t let you tell anyone about this. Sleep tight, Hummel.”

The last things he felt before he blacked out were the coldness of metal against his skull and a big, sweaty hand against his stomach.


	2. Learn By Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: mentions of minor character death, mentions of non-graphic sexual assault, non-graphic violence, language

****_Code blue: An emergency situation in which a patient is in cardiopulmonary arrest, requiring a team of providers (sometimes called a ‘code team’) to rush to the specific location and begin immediate resuscitative efforts._

“Hurry! His heart’s stopping!” the girl shouted over the unsteady beep of the heart monitor. The room flew into chaos, a buzz of men and women in blue scrubs scrambling to gets their hands on something, _anything_ that might make a difference.

“Code Blue! Code Blue!” shouted someone without a name in the background, and a man carried in a blue cart filled to the brim with medical supplies. Hands reached out, grabbing things and cutting things and sticking things in, but nothing seemed to be making a difference.

He watched, heart thumping, wishing in vain that his abundance of heartbeats could somehow be transferred into the flatlined monitor. After all, who needs that many? People flocked him, searching for guidance, what to do. Anyone who could lined up at the head of the bed, arms extended and pressing hard against the chest, switching out once they could no longer push at full strength. This was where the prideful were weeded out; saving a life did, and always had to, take priority.

A half hour passed, fluid bags emptied and replaced, the line exhausted and started up again before he finally decided that it was time. At the foot of the bed, a handsome man with dark curly hair sighed, looking around the chaotic room. He held up his hand, and everyone stopped and stared at him. Shaking his head he said, “Call it.” Silence followed.

“Anderson, are you certain?”

He nodded, expression somber. “I’m afraid so, unless anyone can think of anything else. Call it.”

It was almost palpable, the hearts of everyone in the room sinking into their stomachs. A woman by the head checked her watch and announced, “Time of death, 12:45 PM.”

Silence. Blaine clenched his jaw, feeling a strong migraine come through. How could they have failed? This morning when he’d first gotten out of bed, he would never have thought…

Thank goodness this was only the mock final.

A sharp alarm pounded from the walls, and the voice of their professor came through the speakers. “Don’t worry yourselves too much, guys. The final’s not for another two weeks. And, hopefully, you won’t have to resuscitate anyone in real life for another year or more.” She sighed, and the class could almost see her rubbing her temples. “Who am I kidding, telling a bunch of med students not to worry themselves. Just… don’t kill yourselves. Break for lunch, everyone.”

***

The cafeteria of the hospital where their lab took place was as any hospital cafeteria is — a mix of loud children, solemn patients and family, and busy doctors, not to mention sub-par food. Blaine always did find it strange that the only options to eat were fast food and… well, defrosted fast food. His class sat together at a long table in the centre of the room, so quiet they could almost be mistaken for a comically large bereaved family made up of every gender, race, and religion.

“I’m started to regret taking emergency medicine as an elective,” said Sebastian, his close friend in most of the same rotations. “Honestly, maybe I should have done forensic science instead of med school in the first place.”

“Come on, Bas,” Blaine cheered, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. “We’ve only got a year left, and then we’re _doctors._ Isn’t that crazy?”

“We need to _graduate_ to become doctors, Anderson,” sneered Hunter. “After what just happened in there, I doubt that any of us will.”

Shaking her head, Marley arrived with a tray topped with a single apple and a carton of chocolate milk and plopped into the seat beside Blaine. “I think all of you have the potential,” she added, opening her drink. “You’ve made it this far, which means you’re the best of the best. Don’t let one mock exam crush your spirits.”

“You were great in there, Marley,” Blaine praised, bumping her fist. “Super calm, like we all need to strive for. Panic just clouds the judgment, and when it comes to saving lives, we can’t afford that. Especially not in a code blue.”

“And that,” Sebastian began, popping open his soda can, “is why you were in charge. Honestly, how can you not freak out?”

Blaine just shrugged, stabbing his fork into his pasta. Tuning out of the conversation, he ran through the notes in his head one more time, trying to figure out what they had done wrong — if he had given the wrong order for fluids, if the CPR wasn’t proper form, or if there was just nothing they could have done. As much as he hated to admit it, the last one seemed like the most realistic.

The truth is, he couldn’t save everyone… even that stupid dummy.

But you know what they say about speaking ill of the dead.

“Earth to Blaine!” Marley whispered dramatically, waving a hand in front of his face. He snapped out of his reverie, and she snorted in her adorable way. “Man, you were really out of it. Carrying the weight of the world on your mind again?”

“I believe the expression says shoulders.”

Sebastian smirked. “Yeah, well, as great as your shoulders are…”

“Your mind seems to have a lot on it,” Marley finished, glaring at Bas playfully.

“Yeah, well…” Blaine trailed off, catching sight of a familiar pristine white coat out of the corner of his eye. Setting down his fork, he stood up, excusing himself absent-mindedly. “I’ll be right back.” As he left, he didn’t see Marley and Sebastian share concerned glances at one another.

He caught up to the white-coat doctor, who was walking through the hall with his phone out, scrolling through some kind of medical database app. His brown locks covered his eyes, but Blaine could tell he was tense from the tightness in his shoulders.

“Everything alright, doc?” he called out, leaning against the grainy wall. The doctor stopped and turned, a smile suddenly lighting up his handsome features.

“Hey, squirt! You had a lab this morning?” Cooper asked, ruffling his little brother’s wild curls. Blaine nodded, pulling a sour face that made his brother chuckle. “I remember my emergency medicine rotation. Those were the days.”

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Of course you remember this rotation — you liked it so much you decided to go into it, if I remember correctly, _Dr. Anderson_.”

His brother grinned widely, showing his pearly teeth. “You know, soon enough there’ll be two Dr. Andersons, and people are going to have to call us by both names.”

“Fingers-crossed,” Blaine replied, doing exactly that. “Anyway, are you working tonight?” Cooper nodded in affirmation. “Alright, I’ll stop by your office with dinner.”

“Sounds great, and I’m sure it’ll sound heavenly once I’ve worked for twelve hours. What’s on the menu? Chinese take-out again?”

“Actually,” Blaine responded, pushing himself off the wall. “I was thinking Italian tonight.”

***

By the time Blaine arrived at his apartment, Wes had already taken over the coffee table.

“Okay, Wes, you’re my friend, but I’m worried about you. I think we need to have an intervention.”

Wes chuckled dryly, rearranging his assortment of books scattered across the mahogany. “Hilarious, Blaine. You should quit med school and become a stand-up comedian.”

He raised his eyebrows, watching his friend scribble on post-it notes and stab them furiously into a harmless manuscript. “After how the mock went, I might just consider it.” Wes stopped, turning to his exhausted friend and immediately clearing a spot on the couch for him to sit.

“Do I need to break out the good stuff?” he asked, handing him a half-full glass of cheap liquor. Blaine downed it in one gulp, but shook his head anyway, leaning against the headrest.

“I’m just afraid that…” he trailed off, swallowing the large knot in his throat. Wes placed a hand on his knee, reassuring. “I’m afraid that the same thing will happen, but not during an exam…”

“Blaine, you know you can’t save everyone,” Wes comforted, all attention off his books and on his roommate. “But you can damn well try, and that’s all anyone will ever ask of you.”

“Not everyone,” he mused, tracing the glass’ rim with his finger. “Not me.” At Wes’ concerned stare, Blaine shook his head, laughing shakily. “But you know, I won’t have to worry about this for another year or two. How about you? How was class today?”

“Ah, same old,” he replied, gesturing to the books on the table. “Please tell me we weren’t that obnoxious when we were kids.”

“Teenagers, Wes.” Blaine chuckled, troubles fading away. “And yes, we definitely were.”  
  
“Seriously, it’s like none of them appreciate Shakespeare! One of them wrote, ‘he’s the guy who made Jaws.’ Jaws!” At that, Blaine’s small giggles turned into full-blown laughter, and after a moment of pretending to be offended, Wes joined him.

After they calmed down, Wes wiped a tear from his eye and asked, “Are you home for dinner today?”

Blaine shook his head. “Take-out with Cooper, I’m afraid. Speaking of which,” he checked his watch, “I should head out now. Thanks for cheering me up, buddy.” Grabbing his bag and wallet, Blaine pressed a light kiss on his friend’s cheek before heading to the door.

Before the door closed, he saw Wes rolling his eyes and smiling fondly. Suddenly, he felt lighter, almost like the weight on his… mind had been lifted. He grinned, thanking his friend in his head, and allowed himself, just for a moment, to feel weightless, light, free of responsibility.

But… everyone knows Blaine Anderson was never destined to be careless.

***

“I come bearing pasta,” Blaine announced as he stepped into his brother’s office, two paper bags dangling from his hand. Cooper shot up from his computer, rushing over to his brother and snatching one from his hand.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you, squirt?” Cooper squealed like a child just told they were going to McDonald’s, mussing Blaine’s curls again before rushing back over to his desk and tearing open the package. He breathed in the heavenly scent, sighing to himself.

Blaine sat at the table, unpacking his bag. “I don’t recall, actually. But you can make it up to me by not starving to death at work. Although, if you were to starve to death, I suppose the best place to do it would be at work…”

“Because I’m a doctor, yeah, I get it. Has anyone ever told you that you should be a stand-up comedian?”

He grinned to himself. “Once or twice.” Clearing his throat, he picked up a fork. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

“Well, I’m on call, so whatever happens I’m dealing with, I guess. Let’s hope that’s not a lot. Dare I say it, so far it’s almost been… _quiet_.”

Blaine gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his forehead. “Cooper! You’ve cursed the shift!”

“Oh! My apologies. I really should be more careful,” he replied, grinning.

As they ate, the brothers talked about their days, weeks, sometimes even just the state of their lives. It was more often now that Blaine was back in Lima after undergraduate studies in New York that they could see each other, especially now that lots of Blaine’s classes were at the hospital where Cooper worked. It was an arrangement that suited both of them, despite the fact that Blaine was… well, in Lima.

Not that he hated Lima — he would just rather be back in the city that had his heart. But after their father’s death, leaving their mother alone and with no one to care for her, both brothers had concerted to return to their hometowns, and once Cooper found a job in the ICU and Blaine completed his bachelor’s degree and gained acceptance in med school in Lima, there was really only one thing left to do: pack up and move back.

He tried not to long for the busy streets or the quaint cafés, for Times Square or Central Park, for the lights at night or the sunny days, but every night he would dream of being back there, of having completed medical school and having the perfect job at a hospital and still having time to sing at coffee shops at night, of going out with his friends and getting plastered but of having someone waiting at home to forgive his stupidity and take care of him the way he was so used to taking care of everyone else.

These were some of the few thoughts that Blaine never shared with his brother. He knew Cooper had dreams, too — packing it all up and moving to LA, making it big as an actor. In fact, when he looked up, he could still see the poster from his Free Credit Rating Today commercial hanging beside the degrees in his office. But both of them knew that this was their lives, and it was okay — they were happy. Really, they were… just not as happy as they had dreamed.

“You dreamed _what_?” Blaine exclaimed, barely saving himself from choking on his dinner roll. Cooper smirked, patting his brother (just a little too hard) on the back

“Oh, you know, that you and Sebastian were married, and I was your best man.” Blaine blinked, eyes wide, staring at his older brother who rolled his eyes at him. “What? It’s not like it’s impossible. Probable, even.”

“Cooper, you know that’s not how it is with me and Bas. Besides, I don’t want probable. I want… passion. Love. I want impossible.” Blaine sighed, resting his chin on his hand dreamily. “Is that dumb?”

His brother shook his head fondly. “It’s ambitious, not dumb."

“But do you think…?”

“I think I’m not the best person to ask,” he explained, solemn look in his eyes. Blaine paused, lowering his gaze to the cracks in the table. Each second the silence dragged on, he could feel the stinging in his eyes turn into tears, and he blinked them back furiously, knowing that if he cried, so would Cooper… and they had only just gotten past that.

“Cooper-”

“Just drop it, please,” he replied. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Okay.” He poked at his dinner, not looking his brother in the eye. Even after a year, his brother couldn’t help but shut down every time he tried to talk about _her_. 

After a long moment of less-than-comfortable silence, a loud buzzing filled the room, breaking the men out of their reveries. Cooper sighed, grabbing his pager off his belt and shoving his half-eaten dinner aside. Blaine watched him distractedly, fiddling with the mouse on his brother’s computer.

When Cooper stood abruptly, knocking his chair to the floor, Blaine’s heart rate quickened. “What’s wrong?” he yelped as Cooper tore his coat from the hook and jammed his arms through it. Instead of getting a response from his brother, however, Blaine was answered by the resounding click of the overhead speakers, followed by a code he had only ever known in textbooks.

_Code Orange._

He grabbed his cell phone, refreshing his email to find one from the hospital calling for anyone available. “Road accident — truck went rogue and ran over a bunch of pedestrians… there was a shooter. Ambos return in fifteen.”

“I have to go, Blaine,” Cooper stressed, digging through his on-call bag for his stethoscope. “Where is it?”

“Right here,” Blaine answered, looping it around his brother’s neck. “Stay calm, Coop.”

Cooper hesitated for a moment before grabbing his brother’s shoulders. “You need to come with me.”

Blaine’s eyes popped open, and he took a step back. “I haven't even graduated!”

“It’s an emergency, squirt!”  
  
“Cooper, I failed my code blue this morning! How could I possibly be of any help?”

“I believe in you,” his brother told him, looking him square in the eyes. Blaine hesitated, and Cooper repeated his words. He nodded, and the men hurried towards the door, throwing it open to see others doing the same. All hands on deck.

It seemed that Lima wasn’t so different from New York after all.

***

His hands were always full. Every second. He always had something to do; so often, in fact, that he didn’t even have time to panic. This was what Blaine was good at — handling situations. That morning faded out of his memory, along with the self-doubt, the worry. All that was left was duty, responsibility. His specialty.

If you asked him the next day what happened in those first ten minutes after the ambulances arrived, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. The adrenaline pumped through him, coursing through his veins as though it was rushing into him through an IV, and each task he completed with a level head was one less thing a doctor had to do. His heart was racing, but he felt good. Strong.

At least until _he_ was wheeled in.

The unconscious boy looked young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His pale white skin was cracked and stained with dark blood — a split lip, slash across his nose, and a black eye. But worst of all, there was a large gash on the back of his head, seeping blood that was drying in his chestnut hair.

Without pausing to think, Blaine rushed to the boy’s side, spewing questions at the EMT. Cooper caught sight of them, rushing over and gently assessing the injuries. The boy was in critical condition, slipping in and out of consciousness, but seemed entirely delirious.

For the first time that night, Blaine was scared… and he didn’t know why.

“No gunshot wounds,” Cooper determined, checking his clipboard. “Shit, the staff are all occupied. Why didn’t he arrive with the others?”

“He wasn’t at the scene, doctor,” replied the EMT. “Someone called from the high school, his brother. We believe he was assaulted by a classmate or someone in the building.”

“Blunt force trauma to the head,” Blaine said softly, cradling the boy’s head in his hands and turning it gently to show his brother the wound. “Some kind of long metal object, like a crowbar. A different angle could have penetrated the skull.”

“Doctor?” said the EMT, face heavy with barely-concealed emotion. “We believe there was sexual assault involved, at least to some extent. The patient was conscious when we arrived at the scene, hysterical. He was hostile to touch, which is common in…” The sentence trailed off, and Blaine’s breath hitched in his throat.

“What’s his name?” he asked as Cooper lifted up his shirt, wincing at the colour across his ribs.

“Kurt Hummel, seventeen years old. Student at McKinley High.”

“And he was found by his brother? No sight of the perpetrator?”

The EMT shook his head. “Found by his step-brother, one Finn Hudson. The perp was gone when he found him.”

“Is the step-brother here? Did he ride in the ambo?”

“No to both. Waited for his mother, I believe.” With Cooper’s dismissal, the EMT rushed back to the ambulance, leaving the brothers with the boy.

“So he has no one,” Blaine whispered to himself, brushing a strand of hair out of the boy’s swollen eyes. With tremendous effort, they opened for a moment and locked with his, and for that moment, Blaine was mesmerized by their stunning blue. “ _Kurt_.”

“Blaine.” He jolted back to reality at his brother’s sharp tone, catching his gaze. “We have to stabilize him. He has a pulse, but it’s weak. Low blood pressure.” Kurt had drifted back into consciousness, but Blaine could see the blank, confused look in his beautiful eyes, as though he had no idea where he was or what had happened.

Blaine’s heart tightened in his chest when he began to sputter, and he quickly and carefully turned Kurt to his side where his injuries were less. Vomit spewed from his lips with an agonizing cough. “Aspiration. He’s choking on his own vomit,” Blaine stated. “Does that mean he could have sustained a mild brain injury?”

“Not necessarily,” Cooper replied. “Look at the bruising on his abdomen. The emesis could be a result of injury to his digestive organs, or very well a concussion.”

Kurt rolled onto his back, groaning painfully but quietly, as though he was subconsciously trying to keep quiet through the heart-wrenching pain. His eyes were closed again, and Blaine shook his head, whispering gently to the boy. “Stay with us, Kurt. Please.”

Cooper stared at them, eyes wide. “Blaine, I… I can try to save him, but I need someone to assist.”

“So find someone!” Blaine exclaimed. There was a moment between them that spoke for Dr. Anderson, and Blaine shook his head passionately. “No, Coop! I can’t! I’ll… I’ll find you someone else! Someone better-”

“There is no one else,” Cooper admitted, looking down at the broken boy on the stretcher. “Lima hasn’t seen a situation like this in a long time, squirt, so everyone’s already got their hands full. I need you, Kurt needs you. Please.”

His heart hammered in his chest, each one seeming to go by faster with how little time he had. He really wasn’t sure what to do, what was the right thing for Kurt — whether to risk helping his brother himself despite how little experience he had or waiting for someone better, wasting that precious time that seemed to be rushing by with every beat of his heart. And, also with every beat of his heart, Blaine couldn’t help but notice how Kurt’s was slowing...

Then, for just a second, Kurt’s eyes opened again, those stunning pools of blue. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a hint of reassurance in them, as though Kurt had been following everything that had been said despite his delirium. Blaine took a deep breath and gave his answer.

“What do you need me to do?”

It was then, as Cooper gave him a solemn smile and started doling out instructions,that Blaine realized that the feeling weighing him down was no longer just responsibility — it was fear. Fear like he hadn't felt in a very long time. The kind of fear that makes your spine stiffen and your hands sweat, that makes everything you've ever experienced seem useless. The kind of fear that also relieves you, because you know it can't get any worse.

Only it did get worse, the second Kurt Hummel's heart stopped beating.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Vending Machines

****Careful not to make a sound, he crept through the hall, balancing his weight on the tips of his feet, glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Heart racing, he slipped stealthily around the corner and into the room, silently rejoicing at his victory. He inched closer, even closer, and he was almost there, reaching his hand out with glory in sight…

“Finn Christopher Hudson, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” his mother chided, blocking the stove with her body. “I already told you, we’re not eating until Kurt gets home.”

“But mom,” the large boy whined, stomping his foot childishly. “I’m starving!”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before leaving your brother to drive himself home,” Carole stated, opening the pot and stirring around its contents. As the spicy smell wafted towards his nose, Finn’s stomach churned, and a long whimper escaped his lips. 

Burt, already sitting at the dinner table, lifted a finger in agreement. “Finn, you really shouldn't have left him there alone. But Carole, he’s got a point. The stomach wants what it wants. We don’t want the food to get cold, either.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “It’s on the stove, Burt. The stove that gives off heat, just to be clear.”

Finn paused for a moment as the couple exchanged playful banter, reaching for his phone. Scrolling through the log, he saw it had been over an hour since he’d left Kurt with directions to the locker room. Strange… the school wasn’t that far from their home. He brushed the thought away — Kurt must have seen a sale somewhere and decided to go late-night shopping, or even decided to get some schoolwork done at the public library that seemed to never close (not that Finn would know). But still, it was Friday Night Family Dinner, and Kurt knew that. He wouldn’t just…

“Mom, I’m gonna go check something upstairs,” he announced distractedly, making his way up to his bedroom when his mother voiced her acknowledgment. Grabbing his laptop, he logged into his email, pulling up the only one left unread. It was from Coach, detailing what had gone on at the meeting earlier that day. It was the usual — drills, game plays, cardio. As he was looking through the time stamps, he realized that the practice would have ended an hour before Glee was let out.

That didn’t mean anything, right? He knew the football guys liked to pick on his brother, but he’d been so diligent at protecting Kurt during school. Leaving him alone couldn’t have meant… no, who would wait around for an hour just to pick on his kind, innocent brother?

The answer to that: David Karofsky.

People called Finn a lot of things, both bad and good — handsome, athletic, sometimes not the cleverest. But while Finn wasn’t academic or book-smart, he had a gut that always did him good (unlike Burt, who’d maybe had one too many beers over the years). Finn knew when something was wrong, or when someone he loved was in danger.

He didn’t hesitate for a moment before grabbing the keys to Carole’s minivan and speeding off towards the school, with barely a moment of explanation to their parents. He didn’t even realize he’d forgotten his coat until he stepped out of his car into the school parking lot, and the penetrating cold bit through his skin and into his bones.

The lot was empty — almost. There was one car left, parked awkwardly in the middle of an otherwise vacant area, that stood out to Finn. There was something ominous about the dark of the moonless night swallowing the vehicle whole, something that drew him towards it. When he was close enough to see the silver scratches in the paint, he stopped.

It was his car.

The one Kurt was supposed to have driven home _hours ago._

“The one time I wanted to be fucking wrong,” he cursed under his shaky breath, sprinting towards the school. Throwing the door open, he paused to catch his breath when his eye caught on a familiar pair of high-heeled boots tucked away behind a fake plant — clearly not meant to be hidden, only removed and put somewhere safe enough for a minute or two away.

They were Kurt’s favourite.

As if he didn’t already have enough reason to worry about his little brother. Carefully, he picked up the boots, cradling them to his chest like a football. Kurt would certainly never let him hear the end of it if he damaged his precious boots.

He rushed down the deserted hall, past trophy cases with his name on them, past his locker from freshman year, past the ball-and-chained library he’d only ever been in because the back row of dusty history books were excellent insulators of sound. He passed the choir room that held his favourite trophy of all and continued down to the gym, stepping into the locker room.

“Kurt?” he called out, voice bouncing off the confining walls. Finn had never felt anything but at home in this room, but in the dark of night without the cheer of a game, without his teammates clapping his back and sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, without knowing that Kurt was safe in the bleachers, complaining to Burt about how the rain was ruining his perfect ‘coif’ (whatever that meant), it seemed heavier, louder, like he could see it in the eyes of his brother.

But he couldn’t see _his brother._

“Kurt, it’s me. Where are you?” he called. After another moment of silence, he began to doubt that Kurt was here. Maybe he couldn’t find the keys and got a ride from someone? Maybe his phone died? He relaxed, realizing that he had been worried over nothing. Kurt was fine.

If he wasn’t, he would have called out, right? He would have made some kind of noise, anything...

Kurt wasn’t here. Dinner was at home. It was time to go.

“Shit, it’s cold out there,” he mused, setting the boots down on a bench and rubbing the goosebumps on his arms. He figured he couldn’t drive his own car home, since he’d taken the minivan there and apparently the keys weren’t even in his locker either, but he might as well grab his jacket while he was in the locker room.

When he took another step, the automatic lights turned on overhead, a familiar buzz that reminded him of summer cicadas. He found his locker, #5 to match his jersey, and pried it open, smiling sheepishly to himself when he realized that Kurt was right and he had, in fact, forgotten to lock it. His letterman jacket was there, hung on the middle hook with care, and he grabbed it and slid his arms through, warming up almost immediately. Cold fingers twitching, he stuck his hands in the pockets — his left hand slammed into a cold, sharp object, and he stopped, breath hitching in his throat. He pulled it out.

It was his keyring.

“There are so many reasons this could be here, Finn,” he told himself, shaking his head. “Don’t jump to the worst possible conclusion.” It was unlike him; he was always one to see the bright side of things, even when no one else could. But you know that feeling you get when you know something bad is about to happen, that one that settles heavy on your shoulders and anchors your stomach to your feet, that one that makes you feel like you’re walking through a horror movie? That was how Finn was feeling, and Finn’s gut was never wrong.

When he turned around, his scream pierced the icy air like a knife dipped in the pit of the sun. It was a scream that echoed off the walls, leaving its own inky soot against them like a squash ball in a court, its design practically lost in the breadth of his brother’s.

He suddenly wished that the lights would turn off again. He wished that the bloodstains on the floor led to a body that was anyone but _Kurt_ , selfish as that may sound. He wished that Kurt’s hair was in its perfect coif and not matted to his scalp, that his clothes were immaculate and not torn and clawed at, that his diligently moisturized skin wasn’t split and sliced.

He wished he had driven Kurt home like he had promised that morning, when everything was better than okay, when he wasn’t standing here wondering whether or not his brother’s eyes would ever open again.

***

They ask questions to people who witness a crime. They ask for details, like what time it was, what cars were in the lot, what he was wearing. Then they ask harder questions, like who would want to hurt him, or had he been acting strange lately, or did he have any secrets. What they don’t understand is the overwhelming pain that floods the mind during times like these, or the method by which it saves itself from shutting down completely — blocking, deflecting, hiding.

Hours passed. The tiny emergency ward held few empty chairs that night, and Finn gave his up to a tearful elderly widow. Of course, this meant he had idle feet, which led to him pacing across the floor until his mother stopped him with a hand on his arm. He broke down, curling up on her lap like a weeping child, clutching the fabric on her shirt. She didn’t mention that he was getting far too large for this and just held him closer, gazing up at her husband beside her.

Few things could break Burt Hummel, as was a well-known fact. Few things could wrench tears from his eyes, shatter his heart, his soul. One of those things was Kurt’s mother’s death ten years ago. Elizabeth had been his soulmate, his one true love, the mother of his child; that wound would forever be there, had been open and bleeding for the better part of a decade, but his darling nurse had sewn it up with expert hands. But this time… Burt was quite sure that no one could fix this. Nothing could fix this. Not the sun, moon, or stars.

Just his son, his moon and stars. His universe.

He’d been in a hospital many times throughout his long life, the most recent being a follow up after his serious heart attack. And, while that had been terrifying, this was darker. This wasn’t the will of nature; it reeked of man. So, instead of feeling helpless, he could feel vengeful.

Anyone who looked at him would tell you there was murder in his eyes.

Officers were still asking Finn questions when the code came over the speakers. Even if they hadn’t known what it meant, the cloud of doctors rushing into the OR spoke for itself. This was, again, hazy from Finn’s narrative; it all comes back to pain in the end. All he could really remember were the softness of Carole’s cotton blouse and the way the officers had to hold his step-father back as he shouted in the direction of Kurt, flailing his arms and crying fat tears. He couldn't even remember what he had been shouting, other than an abundance of the name that couldn't seem to leave his head. Even then he didn’t hear Burt’s voice, but a warped sound that spun in his ears and made his head throb.

Burt sat down eventually, and they kept on waiting. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting. There was nothing else for them to do, lest they focus their energy on something entirely self-destructive like the mechanic seemed to be doing. And Finn… Finn’s mind was like a broken record player, and all he could see was _that_ , whether his eyes were open or closed. And the _guilt_ … the guilt was just selfish. Sure _he_ felt like death, sure _he_ was being torn apart at the seams, but _Kurt_ …

So he closed his eyes, and he rested against his mother, not asleep but not awake, in this wholly separate state of just being _there_ , but not really.

***

“What does that even mean?” Carole asked, clutching her husband’s arm and weaving her fingers into her son’s messy hair.

“It’s like he’s there, but not really,” Burt murmured, breathing shakily through his nose. “Alive, but not awake. Fate’s cruellest joke on the people who love him.”

Dr. Anderson sighed, glancing back in the direction of the room before turning to face the family. “His response to stimuli is minimal, at best. We believe the part of his brain responsible for wakefulness is not functioning properly, and we have diagnosed him to be comatose. But favourably, we have found that some brainstem areas are still functioning, like his pupils responding to light.”

“So he will wake up?” Carole asked with bated breath, gaze boring into every crevasse in the doctor’s face. “Our son will wake up?”

“I’m afraid that, while a positive sign, these functions do not indicate when, or if, Kurt will regain consciousness,” Dr. Anderson replied, pity heavy in his eyes.

“What can we do?” Finn whispered, gaze firmly planted on the tiles below his feet.

Dr. Anderson gave him a hopeful, sympathetic smile. “You can speak to him, let him know you’re there. Talk to him as though he were awake. If he can hear you, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” His smile faltered, and he sighed softly. “Otherwise, I’m afraid it’s up to him. But, from what I’ve seen and heard, he’s a strong one.”

“Thank you, doctor,” replied Carole, the other two lost in their all-consuming thoughts, unable to speak. Finn wasn’t quite certain, but he thought he saw the doctor nod, and then he was gone. He hadn’t given the man much thought; he was just a face. Sure, he’d been the one in there with his brother, but that idea was of a reality that he wasn’t a part of.

In that moment, Finn’s thoughts were so occupied by the image of his brother’s broken body that he didn’t have enough of himself left over to hold himself together.

That night, Friday Night Family Dinner was made up of granola bars from the hospital vending machine.

***

The next forty-eight hours were spent standing in one corner or another; Burt had a monopoly on the chair by Kurt’s bed (hands grasped together in a way that reminded him too much of when Burt was in his place), and there was nowhere else to plop his butt down. He supposed he could have found something, but to be honest, he would rather have stood. That way, he had an excuse to stare at the floor as he put one foot in front of the other, pacing along the threshold, too frightened and ashamed to go any further inside.

Still, during those forty-eight hours, Finn never once left the hospital, despite what he told his mother. Instead of heading home, the nights he spent in pitiful, disturbed sleep in the cold, loud waiting room while Burt slept, hunched over his son’s crumbling form. Carole watched over her husband, pacified with the thought that Finn was at home, sleeping in his own bed — any guilt he felt over lying to his mother was just added to the pile already working at tearing apart his soul.

It was only on the third day that Burt finally caved and let Carole drag him out to take a shower. For a while, Finn just stood in the doorway, watching the breath go in and out of his brother through the ventilator. The chair by his bed was empty with both Carole and Burt away at the same time — for the first time — and it looked wrong, desperate, like Kurt was begging him to come closer… and so he did, resting gently in the chair as though he wasn’t worthy to fill his step-father’s shoes. 

“The doctor said that maybe you can hear me,” he began, not touching the boy but staring intently at where his arm rested against the mattress, unable to look at his bruised face, “so I figured I’d start from the beginning. It’s been three days since… what happened. You’re in a coma, by the way. I don’t know what it feels like in there, so I just thought I’d let you know.”

Finn took a deep breath. “I don’t know exactly what happened to you, Kurt, but I think I know. Honestly, though, I hope to God I’m wrong because there’s nothing worse than what my imagination has come up with. Please, just wake up and tell me that none of it is true… that I’ve made it all up in my head. And I know this sounds selfish, but it’s crushing me. It’s so heavy. I can’t…”

His throat closed up, and he wiped the tears from his eyes. He laughed humourlessly. “Would you look at that, I’m crying. Now all I need is for you to wake up and make fun of me for it. Not that you would — guys can cry, too. That’s what you would say. I guess you were right. I am crying, after all.” 

Resting his head against the soft bedsheets, Finn closed his eyes, letting his tears get soaked up by the white fabric. Exhausted, he whispered three little words to his brother before dozing off into a deep, dreamless sleep. Soon after, Carole returned, a soft, sad smile spreading across her features at the sight. She gently placed a blanket over her son’s curled up form, sitting herself down in the plastic chair she’d brought with her, soon joined by her husband.

In the melancholy quietude that followed with them wrapped up in each other, neither one of them noticed the man with gorgeous black curls and a straight-lipped smile turn solemnly away, heart swirling chaotically with a mix of warmth and sorrow.


	4. Coffee and Dandelions

****Blaine loved the winter. He loved the feeling of snow melting in his untamed curls, his rosy cheeks tingling as the breeze nipped at them like an affectionate puppy, the dandelions turning white and puffy as they blew in the raw wind. He loved the smell of wood and chocolate, the sight of frozen lakes and naked trees, and most of all, the taste of the Lima Bean coffee that was, for the next three months, in charge of keeping him from dying of hypothermia (or suffering from the tragic illness known as the hospital cafeteria). But, even though he loved all of these things, Blaine was not well-known for sitting out in the cold on the two-foot-wide balcony of their tiny apartment with his overheated laptop as his only source of heat, which is why his roommate was currently digging around the cupboards for the warmest blankets he could find.

As he wrapped the Disney blanket around the shivering man's shoulders, Wes sighed, resting a hand tentatively on the laptop. "Come inside, Nightbird. We need to talk."

At the serious tone of his voice, Blaine looked up and nodded. Wes gently pushed the device shut, escorting Blaine back into the room and latching the door.

Hazel eyes stared uneasily up at him, but their owner remained silent as Wes darted around the kitchenette, assembling his uninspired but well-meaning version of a medium drip. The coffee changed hands, and Blaine brought it to his chapped lips, wincing as cold mug touched his skin, not yet warmed by the boiling liquid. "Thank you," he whispered, too afraid to break the peaceful atmosphere that seemed to only have settled around him.

Yet for some reason, Wes was compelled to match his tone. "You know I would do anything for you," he muttered, taking the opposite seat. Blaine frowned, eyebrows scrunching.

"It's a coffee, Wes."

"I know." He eyed the laptop on the counter. "But I need you to know that."

"I do," Blaine replied.

Wes leaned forward. "Answer me this, Blaine. Why were you out there in the cold?"

"The WiFi is better out there," he stated matter-of-factly yet without meeting his friend's gaze. "I needed to get some research done."

"Blaine, look at me." He lifted his head, and Wes saw in his eyes a muddle of exhaustion, unhappiness, and the unfailing dedication he had become accustomed to over the years. "I know you have finals in two weeks, but this is ridiculous. Please, you need to take care of yourself if you want to take care of others."

Lips parting, Blaine nodded, looking almost relieved. "They should put that on a t-shirt and sell it at the hospital," he joked, a hollow air to his voice as he downed the rest of his drink.

Picking up the empty mug, Wes eyed him, worry etched on his face. "Go to bed, B. You need to be in class bright and early."

Blaine rose, taking his fogged glasses off and folding in the sides. "Thanks again, Wes. And goodnight." Disappearing into his bedroom, Blaine's footsteps quieted, and the roommate settled himself onto a stool in front of the counter.

Pulling the discarded laptop towards himself, Wes hesitated, glancing back towards the closed bedroom door. Blaine was nowhere in sight, and the quiet, breathy snores that Wes only heard when the man was really and truly exhausted carried into the kitchen, just as melodious as his singing voice.

There was a fine line he drew between caring for his friend and invading his privacy, but Wes knew when something was wrong. And right now? Something was wrong.

He cracked open the laptop, typing in the password. There, opened, were several tabs across the top of the screen; from what he could see, they were made up of medical jargon. It was far out of his realm of understanding but enough for him to gather that Blaine was studying head trauma in extensive detail.

That was normal. Blaine was a med student studying medicine. Maybe Wes' instinct was wrong, just this once.

Even then, as he guiltily closed the laptop and shoved it away from himself, the pit in his stomach would not ease. Perhaps it was indigestion, or maybe a stomach ulcer. He figured he'd best consult WebMD.

***

To bring himself to the Lima Bean after classes, Blaine had to force one foot in front of the other. He was certain he'd have bailed and settled for instant coffee had anyone other than Marley and Sebastian been waiting for him there - Marley because she was too sweet to disappoint, and Bas because he would have kicked him where it hurt if he deserted them again. Luckily for him, there was a steaming medium drip waiting at the table when he arrived, and suddenly he felt a little less like death incarnate.

"Thank you. You are my life force," he breathed, immediately taking a long gulp. Coffee and research seemed to be all he did these days.

"You're clearly talking to the coffee, but thanks," Marley laughed, shaking her head. "It's nice to see you again, Blaine."

"You saw him an hour ago," Bas pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but we haven't hung out like this for ages," she replied, taking a sip of her own drink. "Don't get me wrong, I love school. But this is where the real party is at."

Blaine smiled into his styrofoam cup. "Quite a party this is."

"Shut up! You know what I mean," she giggled, glaring at him. Her face contorted weirdly as she wore the conflicting expressions on it. Dipping his finger in the cupcake she ordered, Blaine swiped icing across her nose, and she shrieked with laughter, flushing when she realized that they were still in public.

"Ass," she muttered, shooting him a badly-concealed smile.

Bas smirked. "You guys are adorable together."

Blaine snorted, flipping him off, and Marley mirrored his movements. "He's more likely to end up with Hunter than with either of us," she pointed out, hands on her hips.

Sebastian faked hurt. "I'm wounded. Are you saying I'm not his type?"

"Not a chance in Hell," Blaine interjected.

"You might wanna tell Cooper that," he retorted, hiding a knowing smile behind his cappuccino. Blaine slammed his hand down on the table dramatically.

"Damn that son of a-"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch. He merely told me about a lovely dream of his." He grinned, wide and eerie like a Cheshire cat. "Besides, isn't it you who always goes on about dreams?"

Blaine scowled. "Touché."

"I think it's sweet," Marley intervened. "The way we choose to live our lives... we've sacrificed a lot. None of this is how we imagined we'd be back when we were teenagers. But keeping that hope, wanting for love, I don't think there's anything wrong with that."

The two men fell silent, lost in the meaning of her words. "I wish we'd known you back then," Blaine mused as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The tug in his chest, the emptiness that had been growing and growing was threatening to tear open right then and engulf him.

"I don't know that you would have liked me," she replied uncertainly, eyes hardening a smidge as she stared at her untouched brownie. "I was... different."

"I think we all were," Sebastian said, leaning back in his chair. "We grew up, realized things that changed us, that changed our dreams. All I wanted was to get out of school and never look back, and now here we are." He coughed a couple times before breaking his demeanour, grinning wildly once again. "At least Christmas is close." 

"But so are finals," Blaine added nonchalantly, resisting the urge to grab his book bag and start studying right there and then.

Marley groaned, attempting to ignore the awkward air of broken seriousness. "Finals are a bitch."

"No, not just _a_ bitch. _Several_ bitches. Like, in a line, waiting to pummel my ass," Sebastian complained. "I'm especially screwed for the code blue lab."

He paused, glancing at Blaine. They had been careful of mentioning the incident at the hospital, since Blaine had been the only one there. He hadn't been the same since, and neither had the rest of the hospital staff - it had been a long and hard night, the worst Lima had seen in their careers, and it still wasn't resolved. Not until everyone who had come in was either dead or alive,  nothing in between. 

"You can ask about it," Blaine said, fiddling with his cell phone. "I'm not sure I'll be much help, but you can always ask."

And so they did. Blaine answered as much as he could, but he could hardly remember anything before... before _his_ arrival. The blur of papers and IVs and things he could do in his sleep had been broken by returning sirens and a blue-eyed boy on a stretcher who needed things that Blaine couldn't give him - and for Blaine, that was the worst possible thing. 

Blaine Anderson was the man who took care of everyone but himself, and he was okay with that. But Kurt?

He needed to take care of Kurt.

***

"Those are lovely," said the grey-haired woman behind the counter. Her eyes crinkled around the corners as her lips turned up, watching him finger the petals of a vibrant bouquet. He was focused, stopping at each display and analyzing, as though he was a computer and his eyes had the capability to determine which flower would bring his companion the most joy merely by having them by the bed, illuminated by whatever light the bedroom window allowed in. There was a curiosity, too, as it was not love she saw in his expressive eyes - rather, emotion just as intense, but of a different origin.

"Yes," he replied, not appraising or being polite, only stating an objective fact. They were intricate, cylindrical yet tangled like wrestling eagles, white as the fresh sheets of a hotel bed - not roses but a different kind of flower that he didn't know the name of. He wanted them for that reason, too, as they were just as beautiful and deserved the recognition. Blaine was always one to appreciate beautiful things... like those flowers.

She stepped out from behind the counter, grabbing a paper wrap. "For a special someone?" He did not reply, too entranced in the light of the flowers. They were not illuminated by the frosted window, no... they seemed to be creating light from within them, as though they were little pieces of the sun on Earth, and each second his eyes perceived such beauty, the hole in his chest grew larger, wider.

"Hmm?" he hummed, brought back by her gentle hand on his shoulder. "For a... an acquaintance. Recently in the hospital."

"May your acquaintance recover in good health," she replied, eyeing the bouquet.

Blaine tensed. "Thank you." The woman moved to pick up the bouquet to wrap, but he stopped her with a gentle hand. He continued, voice constricted, "Please, do me one favour, and I will buy a dozen bouquets."

She froze, stunned. "What is it?"

"Please," he croaked, tears filling his eyes, "sell these flowers to someone truly in love."

A dozen colourful bouquets in his trunk but not one of pure, beautiful white, Blaine drove towards the hospital with tears drying on his cheeks and three fleecy dandelions resting gently on the passenger's seat, picked carefully from the ground outside the flower shop.

***

Maybe it had been hours, or seconds, or minutes or even enough time so that the sun had set completely and the moon, hiding in its shadow for so long, had finally risen to the top of the sky and was riding out its maybe nine or ten hours of fame, but however long it had been, Blaine did not notice. He didn't notice the thick, chemical smell of iodoform or the throbbing headache he got from staring at the uniform white walls. He didn't notice the constant wail of sirens or the incessant ring of telephones, the heavy air of loss or the passionate devotion of gain.

What Blaine did notice, however, were the waves of the heart monitor and the mechanical rise and fall of the sleeping boy's chest.

He watched vigilantly, yet still out of the corner of his eye, holding on desperately to his styrofoam cup of coffee. It was half empty, having lost its heat long ago, and had the consistency of... well, cold coffee. Still, he took mindless sips of it.

Rise, fall. Rise, fall. He checked - the monitor was steady. He looked back. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. A sip of coffee without removing his eyes.

The room wasn't empty; it never was. Not in the last four days. Well, there had been a moment on the third day at 11:56 pm when the middle-aged man and his wife had left the room, but a boy had taken their place, just as miserable. He looked about Kurt's age, perhaps in his late teens. He must have been Finn Hudson, the step-brother, the one who found... the body.

Blaine waited outside, always. He watched Kurt's vitals from out of sight, made certain he was never too far; he began to study in his brother's office after school, sometimes even sleeping there or in a call room (his brother had connections, but unfortunately was in the habit of asking questions, to which Blaine was in the habit of bullshitting answers). In class, his feet tapped against the floor anxiously, and his mind was far away.

It wasn't like Blaine didn't wonder why he was so fixated on the unconscious boy. He even debated asking Wes, who had a dual degree in psychology and English literature - of course, he ruled out that option, as it was basically signing up to never see Kurt again, the mere thought of which made his stomach churn and his throat close up. He concluded that his preoccupation was just because Kurt was his first real challenge, his first chance to do what he had been studying for almost seven years. He told himself that until Kurt was one way or the other, alive or... dead, he wouldn't have closure, his job wouldn't be done.

That was why his heart clenched with every irregular heartbeat, why he couldn't concentrate when he was far away. That was why he felt weaker with every passing day that Kurt remained comatose in that bed, why he could never, despite noticing every blue thing in sight, find the shade of his eyes anywhere else, as though there was no name to the colour, no other object on the face of the Earth with the same hue.

It was because he needed closure that he felt all of those things.

On the twelfth night of Kurt's coma, Blaine found himself outside of an empty room. The frightening man with murder in his eyes, the tender woman by his side, and the boy whose eyes carried the guilt of a million prisons were out of sight, perhaps down in the cafeteria or out by the curb, getting some fresh air. It seemed almost unfit for such characters to be in as mundane a place as this, as though their destiny was to be out there, as though they had a purpose. Kurt Hummel was not exempt from this observation.

The lights were off in the room, making Blaine’s tired eyes droop as they landed on the boy. Illuminated by the light beneath his bed, he was as always, motionless on the uncomfortable hospital mattress, wires protruding from his body at every angle. The superficial bruises on his face had faded, the cut on his lip mending, and his beauty only grew with each passing day.

Closer than he had been in weeks, Blaine stood in the threshold, listening to the hum of the vending machine at the end of the hallway, watching the monitor light up, waiting for something that wasn't going to happen; after a moment, two, three, he began to measure time by the number of Kurt's heartbeats. He could measure everything by Kurt, he realized in a dangerous thought.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, but stayed so far away that the handle pressed into his back painfully. Clearing his throat, he whispered into the darkness a simple, "Hello."

The darkness did not reply, not that he expected it to. "I'm Blaine," he croaked, voice hoarse and dry from lack of use, as he stepped further inside. "You're Kurt, right? I don't know if you remember me, but we met twelve nights ago when you visited the hospital."

Hesitantly, he sat in the bedside chair. "I'm sorry if this is too personal, but I've been... wanting to talk to you for a while. I don't really know why. And I'm scared-" He stopped abruptly. "Look at me, complaining about being scared. You must be terrified. I don't know what it must feel like in your head right now, Kurt." His hand hovered over the boy's, but he shook his head, retracting it.

"Please," he whispered, unconsciously leaning away from him as though he would break at an accidental touch. "If you can hear me, try something for me. Just... take a moment. Push away all the bad things around you, and focus on this, right now."

A pause. The clearing of a throat. A gentle melody filling the air, rough and scratchy and the most beautiful sound to ever fill that dismal hospital room. The pop song, while having entirely unfitting lyrics for the situation, was somehow perfect in that moment, and the gentle tenor seemed to change the meaning entirely.

As he finished the last chorus, Blaine let out a meaningful breath. "I remember hearing that song on the radio for the first time," he murmured. "It reminded me of how love is supposed to feel. I figured you could use some reminding that, no matter how dark it gets in there, love will always be real out here." He placed his hand beside Kurt’s on the bed, not touching but with enough pressure to dip the bed slightly.

Blaine stood, having said his piece. He left, not knowing how long it would be before he got another moment with Kurt. Outside the room, he stopped at the glass window overlooking the room. He ran his finger along the dusty windowsill where a glass vase sat, the delicate home to eleven wispy dandelions. Inside, he placed another. Twelve dandelions for twelve days.

It was nearing midnight now, and the thirteenth day was approaching, but Blaine knew there was no space left in the vase. His heart began to pound, palms sweaty as panic overwhelmed him.

It was at that exact moment, 11:59 pm on the twelfth night of his coma, that Kurt’s heart monitor exploded into a frenzy of deafening beeps.  
  



	5. Assign From Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Cory Allan Michael Monteith (May 11, 1982 - July 13, 2013). Forever in our hearts. Thank you for touching my life and so many others with your beautiful soul. Rest in peace.
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Violence, mentions of non-graphic sexual assault, possibly offensive language (including slurs)

One week and three days. The halls of McKinley were rowdy as usual, as though nothing had changed, no one was gone, but Finn knew that it had been one week and three days since something had changed, since someone had gone — well, more like one week, two days and thirteen hours up until this lunch hour where Finn was sat in the choir room listening to the incessant chatter of his friends when all he could do was sit silently and try not to lose himself in his own head. 

Mr. Schue’s back was turned to them as he wrote something on the whiteboard, and Finn swore he could hear the squeak as the marker hit the cool surface, even through the ear-shattering noise from his classmates. It was Finn’s first day back at school, and he knew what would be written on that board — some crap about grief, dealing with loss, some bullshit comfort about his brother. When would they realize that he didn’t need their half-hearted agony? When would they understand that laughing and forgetting about Kurt only to turn around and cry when they saw Finn was worse than forgetting entirely? 

Hate rose inside of him, swirling around his chest, killing everything that used to see the good in people, that used to appreciate their words and affections, when his mother’s words filled his head: Everyone grieves differently, _sweets_. And so, as Mr. Schue turned around to reveal Monday's well-meaning but hurtful assignment, Finn clung to those words and caught his breath, looking around at his friends. They loved him, and they loved Kurt. They were not the enemy. He turned back to the board.

The assignment wasn't about pain or mourning. As Finn's eyes drunk in the letters, the edges of his mouth turned up.

 _Memories_.

Mr. Schue set the marker down, leaning against the wall. "I know this has been a difficult time for all of us," he began, gaze wandering across the bleachers without singling out Finn, "but instead of dwelling on the hard parts, this week's assignment is to remember the good parts."

Instead of leaving them with that, the teacher sat down on the piano bench, wiggling his fingers over the ivory keys. "This is one of my favourites," he announced. Finn didn't know whether he was talking about the song or the memory. Maybe both. A familiar tune filled the room as everyone fell silent, listening to the nostalgic melody accompanied by Schue's gorgeous tenor. 

Mr. Cellophane. The song Kurt auditioned for the New Directions with. A song Finn often heard his brother sing in the shower, the sweet voice carrying through the house. His throat tightened and tears welled in his eyes, but the tiny smile on his lips widened. Humming along gently, he allowed the tears to fall down his cheeks. As the last chords rang out, Rachel reached over and wiped them away with her thumb.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered brokenly into his ear, resting her forehead on his arm. She repeated those words, muffled by his sweater, and he let her say them, knowing that nothing he said could console her and that she would just have to forgive herself in time. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, Finn caught Schue's eyes, thanking him with a small nod. The teacher smiled solemnly, resuming his position in front of the board.

"Your task is to prepare a song and perform it this week. You can do solos or group performances, but try to stick to the theme. You have the rest of the lunch period to get started."  He made to leave but paused. "Oh, and guys? Don't be afraid. This is an important one."

Finn watched in awe as he left. How had he managed to dedicate the entire assignment to Kurt without once saying his name? How had he managed to make Finn feel supported without singling him out? He sat there for a moment as the others sprung to action, just thinking. Teaching Glee was about more than songs and music, more than costumes and choreography. It was about using those things to impact people. 

He turned to Rachel. "Do you want to sing with me?"

"I think you should do a solo," she replied, rubbing his shoulder. "If anyone here has something meaningful to say, it's you."

"What about you?"

"I'll think of something." She stood up, glancing at Mercedes across the room before pecking Finn's cheek. "Good luck."

"You too," he muttered, watching her prance over to her sometimes-friend. 

It was Monday, so he had five days to come up with something and perform it. At least he had something to keep him busy while he waited in the hospital waiting room for something he wasn't sure would ever happen or something he never wanted to happen. He grabbed his phone and searched through his list of songs. The entire contents of his downloaded music passed by, but nothing caught his eye.

Frustrated, he tossed his phone back into his bag and fisted his fingers through his hair. Why couldn't he just pick a damn song? Nothing seemed right, felt right. Nothing could do justice to his relationship with his brother. Nothing had such great memories attached to it that he could put all of his pain into singing it and still come out smiling.

Nothing in his phone, that is. 

He shot up abruptly, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. As he headed for the door, Artie stopped him. "Where are you going, man?"

"Home," he replied, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as he left. 

Artie's voice followed him into the hallway. "What about calculus?"

Finn rolled his eyes. “Fuck that.”

 

***

 

He was, at most, three feet away from the microwave. _Three feet._ There went that excuse for why he was mindlessly picking at the cold leftover pasta that he'd made for his dinner date with Emma. To be fair, Will had already eaten about a third of it before he even noticed it was cold, and at that point, he was well past caring. 

His girlfriend, however, gave him a different impression. “William Schuester,” she chided, button nose folding in a way that made him want to squeeze it. “Why in God's name are you disrespecting that linguini? If you get indigestion, I won't even feel sorry for you.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

Her lip found its way between her teeth and settled there comfortably. “Okay, fine. I would feel a little sorry. But that doesn't mean I didn't warn you!”

“Okay, okay.” He lifted his hands in the air in surrender, only to glance back down at the Tupperware container and back at her pointedly. She rolled her eyes and laughed softly, gesturing for him to put his arms down and pick it up. 

As he turned to the microwave, a soft “goofball,” made him smile, and he shifted so he could see the lightness on her face. When he turned back, Sue was at the machine, shoving in what looked like an empty glass container and setting it to ten minutes. 

_What. The. Hell._

She smirked, leaning against the wall, looking obnoxiously smug in her red tracksuit. “What? You snooze you lose, Weepy the Vest Clown.”

Breathing deeply through his nose, Will sighed, fists balling at his sides. “Ten minutes? You aren’t even heating anything.”

“You don’t know that. Could be food, could not be food.” She sipped her coffee. “Schuester’s cat.”

He blinked, tiredness exuding from him. “I have no idea what that means, and I honestly don’t give a fuck.”

“Of course you don’t, that joke was much too sophisticated for you, Macaroni Hair.” 

Coach Beiste interrupted, glaring at her. “Come on, Sue. Everyone’s had a tough couple of weeks.”

She raised an eyebrow mockingly. “And why is that, She-Hulk?" 

“You know why!”

“No, I really don’t. I’m fine as a fiddle. Dandy as a… dandelion?”

Beiste’s nostrils flared as she stared the cheerleading coach down in the teacher’s lounge. “How can you be so… happy? Nothing is okay! Nothing!”

Sue set down her mug, eyes narrowing. “I never said I was happy, numbnuts. Just that I’m fine. Try to get that through that pumpkin-shaped skull of yours.” 

“Don’t you care at all?” Beiste roared. The room had gone silent and somehow seemed emptier than it had just minutes before. Teachers were a lot of things, including clever. “We’re supposed to take care of them! It’s our job!”  
  
“Our job is teaching them.” She shrugged.  “Maybe this was just one of his lessons.” 

The slap that followed resounded across the four walls of the small room. Sue clasped her cheek, covering the reddening skin. Eyes wide, the football coach backed up, cradling her hand and the tingling fingers. 

Will shook his head, pressing the stop button on the microwave. “You had that one coming, Sue. For a long time.”

“Look,” Beiste began, “I’m sor-”

“No, don’t be,” she replied, stretching her jaw. “I’m impressed. Never thought you put that pair of balls to use.”

The coach reddened. “You know what, I take that back. You’re a cold-hearted bitch, Sue Sylvester. How could you even say that about Kurt?”

She sighed. “Ok, listen up and listen good because I will never say this again. _I didn’t mean what I said_.” 

Will placed a hand on Beiste’s shoulder. “People grieve in different ways, Shannon. This is her twisted-to-hell way of coping with the guilt.” 

Sue leered at him. “Speak for yourself, Cory Matthews. I don’t feel guilty about anything, ever, and certainly not about this.”

“How?” Beiste asked, anger ebbing away from her voice, replaced by genuine curiosity and perhaps a little envy. “It eats me up every night. I can’t stop seeing his face when I close my eyes. How do I let go of the fact that I was the last person to see him? That I could have… stopped it? Saved him? Why can’t I?”

“Because your estrogen-lacking, hormonal jock brain can’t comprehend that what happened to Porcelain _was not your fault_?” Sue supplied sincerely. She may have been a lot of things, including a cold-hearted bitch, but she had always had a soft spot for Kurt. 

Will nodded. “She’s right. She’s not gentle, but she’s right. It wasn’t your fault, Shannon.”

“Thank heavens, Butt-Chin is finally making sense.”

“It was mine,” he completed.

Sue groaned loudly. “You’re all a bunch of idiots.”

“No, it was my fault. I gave him the solo for sectionals earlier that day, but he wasn’t happy. He seemed different than our Kurt. Sad. I should have known something was wrong.”

“Me too,” Emma added, shifting uncomfortably and taking quick, sharp breaths. “I’m their guidance counsellor. It’s quite literally my job. I failed Kurt.”

Slamming her hand down on the counter, Sue shouted, “Will you all shut up? You’re talking like he hurt himself. _He. Was. Attacked._ Do your little pea brains understand me? _Attacked_. Meaning the only person who is at fault is the person who attacked him. Make sense?” Quieter, she continued, as if more to herself than to them. “You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have.”

A moment passed before Will could gather himself enough to respond. “Sue’s right. We couldn’t have known, but we could have looked out for him better. But what’s done is done, and all we can do is do better in the future. We love our jobs, and this is a big part of them.”

“Some people like to pass the blame around, and some prefer to keep it. Like a football, or something. I don’t know.” Sue averted her eyes, but Beiste could sense the sincerity. “I, for one, think blame is a stupid concept and whoever invented it should be castrated with a butter knife.”

Will winced. “Yeah, okay, Sue.”

Her expression shifted, comforting to deadly. “Speaking of castrating people with butter knives… did they ever figure out who did this to Porcelain?”

 

***

 

Karofsky was in his usual place when Finn returned to school two days later — surrounded by the football team, blocking a row of lockers that probably belonged to the mathletes. Blood running red hot through his veins at the sight, Finn tuned them out, focusing on the gentle melody in his ears that always made him grin. Kurt’s iPod weighed down his pocket as he headed to class.

Every seventy minutes, the interaction repeated itself like clockwork. Finn, flanked by the Glee club, would pass by the jocks, lazing around as though they had nowhere to be. By the time the final bell rang and they all met in the choir room for after-school Wednesday rehearsal, Finn was sure he knew every word to the song, every note in the melody, and every flourish he wanted to add to make it more _him_. He knew it like the back of his hand, and he was ready to perform. 

“Mr. Schue, I’d like to go today,” he announced as the teacher settled in. 

Schue glanced up at him and grinned. “Sounds good. Anyone else ready?” Rachel and Mercedes exchanged a look before their hands simultaneously shot up. “Duet?” They nodded. “Great. Finn, you’re up first.”

The boy stood, making his way over to the band and handing them their sheet music before dragging a stool to the center of the room and sitting down on it. Clearing his throat, Finn steeled himself. “I know this assignment is supposed to focus on good memories, and for most of you this wasn’t one, but for me, it was. Not because of the circumstances, but because of the outcome.” Already feeling tears in his eyes, he pressed his feet against the stool to keep himself from running away. “Maybe it’s superstitious, but if I sing it too… maybe things will turn out the same.”

Turning in his chair, he signalled to the band to begin playing and looked up at the bleachers. Taking a deep breath, Finn opened his mouth to sing. “Yeah, I’ll tell you something,” he sang, soft yet heavy with a love only made stronger by misguided hate. “I think you’ll understand…” As he progressed through the adapted ballad, his gaze wandered across the faces of his friends, lingered on his girlfriend, before dropping to the floor in an attempt to mask the tears welling in his eyes. 

“I want to hold your hand,” he finished, so quiet by the end that only he could hear. The teens didn’t clap when he was finished, nor did they hoot and holler and clap each other’s hands and backs like they usually did when one of their own sang for them. This time, they put their heads down and, in a miracle, none of them said a word. 

It had been one week, six days and seventeen hours. No matter how many songs they sang, hope only ran so far. There was going to have to be a moment where they realized he wasn’t coming back... so why not let that be right now?

In the pin-drop silence, Finn’s mind raced — not only inside his head but through the city, to the hospital and back to the choir room. But, while it was loud up there, the physical space around him could not have been more silent. That’s why everyone heard when it was interrupted by a snicker from the open doorway accompanied by a loud “ _fag_."

Finn’s eyes flew open, and all he could see was red. 

There must have been a quote out there to explain the troubled boy, some insightful comment by someone who dedicated their life to making insightful comments, but all he could say about Karofsky in that moment of violence was that he was… well, a fucked-up son of a bitch.

And so he screamed that in his face as he sprung from his chair and out of the room, flung accusations and struggled to shove him up against the nearby lockers — after all, Karofsky had no problem doing the same to Finn's friends, his girlfriend, his goddamn  _brother._  Besides, he couldn't stand the irony of the man who’d sexually assaulted his brother calling Finn a gay slur. For what, having emotions? He'd take that any day. Balling his hand into a fist, he blindly threw it into the neanderthal's face, feeling something crunch beneath the weight... a horrifying pain shot through his arm, but the howl of pain from Karofsky's lips was well worth it.  

Several swings slammed into the side of Finn's face, uprooting a cry from his throat as he fell onto his side, clutching the wound with another wound. His left eye ached and fell shut of its own accord, and he felt it swell instantly under his palm. Through his other eye, he watched as Puck and the other guys swarmed Karofsky, their attacks smudging together through the involuntary tears seeping from his swollen eye and falling into his other. He watched blurrily as Mr. Schue tore them away from one another with unexpected strength. 

Rolling in pain, Finn barely registered the sight of Quinn and Santana holding back a hysterical Rachel who was attempting to reach him. Despite himself, he smiled softly at her, and her cries quieted. He couldn't tell when or how the fight ended, only when Rachel finally crouched by his head and ran her fingers through his hair. Schue sat him up, quizzing him about his injuries. 

The teacher sighed. "Shit, I think he broke his thumb. I'm going to drive him to the ER. You guys should all go home. Rachel, Mercedes, you're going to have to perform your song tomorrow."

Rachel kissed the top of Finn's head. "I don't care if we ever perform it. Can I come with you guys?" 

He concealed his surprise with a look at Finn. "It's up to you, buddy."

"Go h...h-home," Finn choked out through his teeth. His ragged breaths made her wince, and she held him closer. "I'll be f...f-fine. Might take a while. Will s… will s-stay with Kurt." 

She sighed and nodded, pressing one last peck to his cheek before helping their teacher haul him up. "Call me when you see a doctor," she pleaded as everyone made their way out to the parking lot. The teacher gave her a reassuring smile. 

Mr. Schue opened the passenger door, and Finn slid in, offering his friends a soft, sad smile. That smile stayed on his lips until they pulled out of the parking lot and were far out of sight, at which point he let it slowly slide off until all that was left was a straight line disrupted by a thin, bloody gash. 

 

***

 

"Six weeks," instructed Dr. Anderson as he jotted something down on a piece of paper. "Keep the cast on. Come see me regularly for x-rays so we can make sure the bones are in place. The stitches in your lip should dissolve on their own, but I'll take a look at them when you come in. I've written you a prescription for some pain medication. Take only the instructed amount, no more." 

He handed the paper to Carole, who only glanced at him to thank him before returning full-force to her son. Feeling a buzz in his coat pocket, Cooper sighed, pulling it out as he watched the interaction. As he looked down at his pager, the doctor froze. He looked up, eyes wide for only a split second before he controlled them, and turned to Finn. "I'll be back soon. Sit tight," he called out as he grabbed his stethoscope and raced for the door. They barely acknowledged him.

Once he was gone, Carole sat in the chair opposite to Finn, not saying anything. She rested her head in her hands, but Finn could see her back quivering. "Mom," he whispered, head fuzzy from the anesthesia. "Please, don't cry." 

"How can I not, sweets?" She looked up, and her olive-green eyes were bloodshot. Still, somehow, Finn thought they were lovely and imagined having eyes like that instead of his father's brown. But even though he thought his eyes were boring, he did know a girl with the most beautiful brown eyes in the entire world... 

He sighed, staring down at the blue cast on his arm. "It's just my thumb, mom. I'll be good to go in less than two months. And the football thing, that's not even a big deal. I'll catch up when this thing comes off." Yes, he had been disappointed when Dr. Anderson informed him that he would have to take time off, but he was otherwise occupied anyway. And every time he had to play with _him_... well, he just couldn't focus.  

"Honey, just look at your face! It's all banged up. I can't stand to see you like... see you like..." She trailed off, but they both knew what she didn't want to say — she couldn't stand to see him like Kurt. But all he had was an injured thumb, a split lip and some bruises. All he'd had to do was wait in the ER and go through some x-rays. All he'd lost was a few hours. Kurt... Kurt had lost everything.

Finn's watch chimed gently from the table where he'd taken it off for the cast. He glanced down at the face — midnight. He'd lost track of how long he'd been at the hospital, but it must have been a while. Midnight... it had been more than two weeks now since he'd lost his brother. Hadn't he read somewhere...

"I had to do it," he announced absentmindedly. Finn wondered where Karofsky was in that moment, whether or not he was just as damaged, if not worse. "I couldn't let that monster have another second. He doesn't deserve it."

"Finn-" 

"No, you know what? This is fucking stupid," he decided, anger seeping quickly and substantially into his voice. Carole watched, concerned, as he shot up from the table and paced around the room. "Why haven't the police done a goddamn thing? They've had all the time in the fucking world!" 

"Finn, listen-"

"I don't believe a second of their bullshit! They say that I don't know anything for sure? That all I have as proof is a few slushies and a lot of dumpsters? They say they can't do anything until Kurt wakes up? Well, they need to grow the hell up and realize that that might never fucking happen!"

The room fell silent, and Finn's heavy breathing took up most of the space. His neck relaxed, head falling forward as he tried not to collapse into a mess of tears and blood. When he lifted his gaze... it landed on Burt, stood imperfectly still in the doorway.  

He froze. "Burt, I-"

"What's his name?" Burt demanded quietly. His voice was low, like a hidden sword attacking a man's weakest spots. Finn stuttered, mind reeling as Burt approached. "Finn, tell me. The kid who hurt both my sons. Tell me his name." 

The reason Finn hesitated at that moment was not that he didn't want to tell Burt, or that he had any doubt that he was right. He didn't want to protect the monster or to keep him from Burt's undeniable rage. No, the reason was that it was difficult for him to say his name even one more time. But he did... because there was no fucking way he was missing that showdown.

He took a deep breath. "His name... his name is Karofsky. David Karofsky."

Before either of them could say or do anything else, a familiar nurse rushed into the room, holding the door open without explanation. Carole shot up, confused. "What's going on, Harry?" The nurse, Harry, seemed to remember himself and hastened to clarify.

"It's Kurt," he whisper-shouted, eyes lighting up with indiscernible emotion. "He's... he's waking up. But-"

Burt was gone before the man could finish his thought. Carole moved to go with him, but Finn caught her arm, somehow functioning as though the news hadn't quite sunk in. "What is it?" he pressed the nurse, holding onto his mother's side. "But what?"

"It's good that Burt is there. Hopefully, it will help the boy and soften the confusion. But I have to warn you, it's not a pretty sight. Not like you see in movies and television." 

"Thank you," Finn added, "but I have to go and be there." Carole nodded her agreement, at a loss for words. The nurse complied, gesturing for them to follow him. They did.

Carole went in and sat in a chair beside Burt — well, more hovered over than sat. Finn, however, stayed outside the room, clutching the window with fear as he watched the chosen professionals coax his brother back, Dr. Anderson right at the centre. Through the chaos, none of them noticed the curly-haired man sneak out of the room — except for Finn. 

He clearly wasn't a doctor — he wore pants and a grey knit cardigan over a dark red shirt and... was that a bow tie? Finn's eyes narrowed, but he only caught a short glimpse of his face, eyes hidden behind light glasses. Who was he, and why was he in Kurt's hospital room?

Finn forgot all about the man, however, when he heard a crash. He turned back to the window to see Kurt thrashing slowly, as though he imagined himself to be flailing but could really only move with exorbitant effort. 

When he leaned in closer, though, the sight that broke his heart was thin tears falling from Kurt's still-closed eyes, pain on his broken face, and the choked sound of him suffocating on oxygen as he breathed for the first time in what seemed like forever.

But even through all this, Finn cried because he finally let himself believe it — it was Kurt. That was Kurt. He was moving, albeit slowly, breathing, albeit ineptly, but he was there. He was doing it. 

 _Kurt_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My update schedule is fairly irregular, so follow my Instagram account @naya_warbler for sneak-peeks and updates on updates, as well as artwork and edits! This story is also on fanfiction.net under the same title under the username TheArtlessRose. Stay tuned for more chapters, and I hope you enjoyed. Hearing from readers usually gets me more motivated to write ;)


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